


-- TOSKA.

by mercuryking



Series: ATOMIC ROMANCE: a story of dedication. [2]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Crying, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, atomic romance, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 16:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryking/pseuds/mercuryking
Summary: “toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness. no single word in english renders all the shades of toska. at its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. at less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning.”  --vladimir nabokov.in which it's too late to change the past, but not too late to alter the course of the future. the struggle of valery legasov to stay his course in a sea of disaster, coming to terms that boris shcherbina is his true north.





	-- TOSKA.

**Author's Note:**

> please note that this is based upon the '19 hbo miniseries and has nothing to do with the actual historical event. no disrespect is meant to any part of the tragedy in any way, shape, or form. if you truly have nothing better to do than express hatred for fanworks that cover historical events, i'd like to invite you to take a long hard look in the mirror.
> 
> unbeta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

All he can do is watch.

It's torture, really. He knows everything that is about to happen, but is unable to stop it. After all, one cannot change the past.

At first Valery is acutely aware that this is a dream. No: _a nightmare_. A glimpse into the past that haunts his every step. Yes, this is something that he cannot change...though he very much wishes that he could. It's that wishing that slowly starts to blur the line between dream and reality the longer he watches.

Akimov. Toptunov. Good men placed in a shit situation. Valery's heart goes out to them, aches for them. He almost cries for them, in fact. Toptunov is so young...he looks so _scared_ beside Akimov, his steady rock. For a moment, the scientist thinks that they aren't unlike himself and Shcherbina: one very uncertain and nervous, relying on the stronger, more assured one to guide them through. Their feelings are so raw and palpable that it makes Valery's eyes burn with unshed tears.

Then there's Dyatlov, demeaning their every move. Insulting them. _Threatening_ them. Anger burns brightly in the scientist's chest as he tries in vain to tell him to stop, but no sound comes out of his parted lips. He's useless here, as useless here as he is in the waking world. Ineffective. Worthless. _Anyone_ could do better than he can, be of more use--

The power plummets. Xenon pit, it's clear. Akimov wants to shut down, but Dyatlov dismisses him and demands he increase the power to start the test. Valery's heart beats violently as he thrashes against the invisible bonds of his dream-like state. This fool!! He's driving the reactor straight into the ground with little care for the consequences! Doesn't he know what's about to happen? Has he no concept of the basic workings of an RBMK reactor?!

"Don't!! Don't push the reactor, it's at its limit!! Oh, why aren't you listening?! _Listen to me, please--!!_"

Why his voice chooses that moment to work is out of his grasp. But now that it's working, he doesn't let up his cries for reform. He pleads with Dyatlov, practically falls to his knees and _begs_ for him not to continue with the test. The results would be useless anyway! Why doesn't he have the sense to _do the right thing?!_ It seems so clear to Valery that he not only doesn't care, but doesn't _want_ to care. Nor, in fact, does he seem to even _hear_ the scientist's pleas. Oh please, please, someone--! He knows what he's talking about, damn it, so why does no one _listen?!_

The second he hears Toptunov's panicked "we-- we have a power surge, Sasha!", Valery's heart hits the floor. Dyatlov, so quick to cast blame on the men working under his orders, shames them: _"What did you **do?!**"_

Reactivity spikes. There's no more xenon to choke the reactor, nor is there water to cool it. The chemist screams himself hoarse despite knowing that there's nothing that can be done at this point. And Akimov presses AZ-5.

** _"NO, WAIT!!"_ **

* * *

Valery Legasov jerks awake with a cry. His chest is heaving, body covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat, anxiety gripping him tightly in its unforgiving claws. The paralysis of sleep ebbs away slowly thanks to his now apparent panic, weighing his limbs down as though he's submerged in frigid water. There's a soft rustle of fabric from the couch that he barely registers as he struggles to take in more air.

"Valera?"

Boris. Boris beside him, still fully dressed, hand on his shoulder. Boris, who had fallen asleep on the couch in his room after having a few too many vodkas, which Valery had stupidly allowed him to do. Boris, all hard lines and silvered hair beneath frail moonlight, watching him so openly that it makes Valery's heart ache to see it. Yet he can't even speak to reassure him that _this is normal_, that he's _used to the panic attacks_.

But Boris doesn't need to hear it, it seems. "Valera. Breathe with me, Valera."

His first pathetic attempt at a deep breath is painful and slow, shakily drawn in. Constricted, as if through a straw. His muscles refuse to release their tension, even his diaphragm, which doesn't seem to want him to draw in any air. "I-I can't--"

"You can." Boris' hands rise to cup his cheeks, pulling him in to rest their foreheads together, and oh, Valery has realized that there are tears on his cheeks. He'd been crying in his sleep. "Breathe, Valera. With me. Deep breaths."

He tries again, this time sucking in a breath through his mouth. This seems to trigger the start of relaxation, beginning with his chest; his lungs expand fully, allowing his racing heart to start pumping sufficiently oxygenated blood throughout the rest of his body. Slowly, slowly, with each successful breath thereafter, he starts to ease out of anxiety's tight grip, matching his cadence with Boris' own deep, easy breaths.

They sit like that for a good five minutes, forehead to forehead, breathing in tandem. During this time, Valery's mind begins to wander. Now that the panic has ebbed, the faint warmth of the Ukrainian's skin where it's pressed against his own is enough to chase away the thoughts of the dream that had terrorized him. He can think about how Boris didn't _have to_ get up tonight, but he did. About the way the politician's breath tastes on his lips. About how much their relationship has evolved since day one, growing unchecked into the wonderful thing that it is now: the closest of friends, perhaps...even closer. Ah, but there's no point in wishful thinking, is there? Not in a hotel room that's bugged by the KGB, at least, and certainly not when it's involving a married man. A married _career party_ man.

Valery Legasov has his own demons. Surely they're all listed in his file; why wouldn't they be? The state _must_ know all of his indiscretions, his slips, his mistakes. The list isn't exactly _long_, but it's damning enough based on contents alone. There have been other men, sticky fumblings in dorm rooms and apartments, ghosts of gasps and tremulous touches exchanged with the lights off and the curtains drawn. But never, never ever had there been someone he'd been as interested in as Boris Yevdokimovich Shcherbina. And not just on a _physical level_, either! He's decidedly _too old_ for that, after all...isn't he?

After a moment of silence in which Valery has caught his breath, there's a soft hitch to his breathing. Tears roll down his cheeks, hot and fresh and _guilty_, not just because of the dream. He lets himself cry, albeit silently, head lowering to rest against Boris' shoulder as the Ukrainian pulls him to rest against his side.

"Let it out, Valera," Boris whispers, oddly soft for such an imposing man. "It's all right."

"Boris..." he hiccups, fisting the material of the Ukrainian's coat as he shudders. It's cold now that he's sitting up and not flushed with anxiety. At least...that's what he tells himself. Their closeness has _nothing to do with it_.

"Valera," the politician murmurs, stroking his friend's back reassuringly. "It's okay. Are you able to go back to sleep?" When Legasov shakes his head, Boris gives an almost imperceptible nod before shifting up to sit with his back against the headboard, pulling the stymied scientist back with him and allowing him to rest more comfortably with his head against his shoulder. "There. At least now you can doze off if you feel you need to. Now tell me about what woke you." The way he keeps his voice down at the latter part of his statement indicates that Valery should do the same.

"...I dreamed about the control room," he whispers, voice shaking. "About Dyatlov and Akimov and Toptunov. I dreamed about Chernobyl, Boris, and what else is there for me to? Nothing has occupied my mind quite like this. I'm just so _lost_, Boris. Lost in the sea of uncertainty, of doubt, of disaster. What happened here...God, it was _completely avoidable_, wasn't it?" He sniffs and ducks his head, unintentionally pressing his face into the politician's chest as Boris adjusts the arm around his shoulders. It lets Valery drink in his scent: leather, musk, vodka, soap...all things distinctly _Boris_. "...we...we are going to die because of these mistakes. These faults. Because of this system of accountability that refuses to hold itself accountable." This time his words are whispered, only for Boris' ears. A secret between two friends who know they are going to die before the world knows the weight of it.

To his credit, Boris simply listens and allows Valery to use him as an anchor to weather his emotional storm. "Oh, Valera..." The arm behind the scientist squeezes him carefully, as though afraid he might break. "I know despair is normal for you, but _this_ is..." He pulls the redheaded man closer and rests his cheek against the top of his head. "...this is excessive. Your mind is working overtime, Valera. How do we distract you?"

Pressed against Boris' shoulder, all Valery can do is hold onto him and breathe him in. "I-I don't know, Boris," he lies softly. "I don't...I can't..."

That seems to draw curiosity from the politician, who pushes him upright just enough to look into his eyes. "Can't what, Valera?" They're both whispering now, keeping their tones low enough to avoid detection by the microphones. "Can't be distracted? Can't relax?"

"Can't do this to you," Valery replies, despondent and clearly ashamed of himself. He curls inward, body tense again, eyes burning as more tears threaten them.He knows enough to be quiet, but he can't take the edge of frustration and despair out of his words. "I can't. I won't risk your life because of my own selfishness."

Silence descends. Boris doesn't move at all, merely contemplating the scientist where he sits fidgeting, spiraling down into his own self-inflicted madness. The wind sighs against the window panes, lonely and despairing. Then-- it happens all at once. Valery isn't certain who moves first, but Boris' lips are on his and they're kissing. Breathing each other in, gripping each other tightly, exchanging more than words ever could. The scientist is in tears again after only moments of this, softly sobbing into Boris' open mouth as they continue to map out each other's lips. The Ukrainian is unusually gentle; Valery had always expected him to be a forceful lover, sometimes shamefully fantasizing over it in the night when he's feeling particularly aroused. But tonight Boris is nothing like he'd imagined, and it seems to be exactly what Valery needs to _let himself go_.

Boris' jacket is hastily pushed off. They fall into bed, the politician leaning over the scientist who is still crying softly. Lips trace reverently along the lines of Valery's throat and he can't help the quiet sob that he chokes into existence. It's not loud enough for the microphones, but it's loud enough that Valery feels Boris' lips twist in a faint smile. Because he can tell the difference between sorrow and desire, especially in _that sound_.

"Let me take care of you, Valery Legasov."

They explore each other without words after that, Valery giving soft praises that are barely breathed into the sticky air as hands dip beneath his undergarments to touch flushed, freckled skin. He's ashamed at how worked up he's become at something as simple as kissing and a bit of touching, but Boris' voice has _always_ had that sort of impact on him. God, he's fortunate that mind reading isn't something that the KGB has invested money in, else that poor agent would be forced to listen to Valery's filthy thoughts about Boris' gruff timbre every night when they part ways. But now he doesn't need to imagine it to be under Boris' power. Unconsciously his body gives a little jump the second a hand is wrapped around him, lips parting around a silent gasp as his head falls back against the pillows. Those lips are back at his throat as Boris expertly jerks him; Valery falls apart too quickly, body wracked with shudders and jaw slack as he takes shaky breaths to keep himself quiet. But even this far gone, the desire to reciprocate is strong: surely Boris must be achingly hard by now. He tentatively reaches between them, moving to press his palm against the front of the politician's pants, only to find his hand pinned to the bed as that rough voice growls at him not to.

"Tonight is about you, Valera."

* * *

They are silent when they part. Valery wants to feel shame for what he's done, but the afterglow of orgasm makes it nearly impossible, even for a worrywart like himself. He wonders why Boris simply stares after him as he stands to clean himself up. He wonders why Boris takes off his glasses and lays them to the side before encouraging him to go back to bed. He wonders why Boris doesn't simply leave, let him sink back into his own pit of despair. Why? Why does Boris seem to want to drown with him? To commiserate alongside him...?

Why?

He dozes off with Boris' warmth pressed against his back, but his eyes are still wet with shame. They'll wake tomorrow and say nothing of this, go back to Chernobyl and dive headfirst into their work. He'll smoke more cigarettes than usual and be asked about it when they see Khomyuk in the afternoon, but he'll skirt around the subject like most things involving himself. And Boris? Boris will--

...will...what?

Maybe someday soon, possibly on his deathbed, Valery won't need to feel this acute sorrow or shame. Maybe, just maybe, things will be all right. So he tentatively allows himself to hope, pressing back against Boris' solid warmth as a hand rests securely against his hip. Perhaps Boris is hoping, too.

**Author's Note:**

> wow, this got out of control fast. sorry for the ending.
> 
> i'm taking prompts! i especially like getting into valery's head about things. if there's anything you'd like me to write that's chernobyl-oriented, feel free to drop a comment on one of my works. i don't have a personal tumblr set up just yet!


End file.
